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“I wouldn’t let that woman into my house,” this was my husband’s Grandmother talking about me, before we were married.
I was half Jewish, on my Father’s side, which meant he had married Out Of the Tribe.
So I was Jewish enough for a Nazi, say, but not for the Chosen People.

His Grandmother was bitter.
Her family had to leave Vienna because of WW2 and lost everything they had.
How bitter was she?
When they gave her a year to live, she lived on for 4 because death did not want to go near her.

Every April, at the Seder, when the family recited the 10 plagues and then counted out the drops of wine, she added one of her own:
“Dom to the Goyum.”
Death to the Goys, she said, death to the non-Jews.
To the family, she was Nanny being Nanny, but I was mortified and deeply offended.

Last summer we were in LA for a family wedding ad we went to the museum.
We were looking at the art, work by a ‘Jewish artist’, the plaque said.
“Do you think it could ever happen again?” my brother-in-law asked.
We knew what he meant.
All those people killed just because of who they were.

Sure, it just keeps happening, to all sorts of people, throughout the world, throughout time.
And each group needs their time to mourn, speak out, and occasionally offend everyone else.